


Who I was Is Not Who I Am

by EccentricFangirl777



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Disassociation, Endgame Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, F/M, Gen, Healing, Is that the name of the Clarke Griffin & John Murphy brotp?, Memory Loss, Minor Bellamy Blake/Echo, Princess Cockroach deserves a little healing too, Princess Mechanic gets the healing they deserve, Sleep Paralysis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:24:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EccentricFangirl777/pseuds/EccentricFangirl777
Summary: She knows she's still breathing.So where is her hope?***In a more peaceful settlement hastily built far away from the city Sanctum, Clarke struggles to re-assimilate in her body while Bellamy and the others deal with the harsh revelations Josephine left behind.





	Who I was Is Not Who I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy deals with a devastating loss, and Clarke begins to resign to her fate until she meets an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season six is one amazing season, and I've been absolutely inspired by some of its themes/plot points, like memories, facing demons, deteriorating minds, _mind_ **_fucking_** _chips_. The list goes on.
> 
> SO yeah I've had an idea for this story ever since 6.05 bUT I WASN't SURE WHAT TO DO WITH IT.
> 
> So, I decided to write this piece of shit story 😂 I didn't want to publish it until I could smooth out the technical details, but then again, it's been festering in my mind for so long, I literally couldn't see the holes in the technical jargon. I know there's some, but I don't know where it is, so I thought, ' _Ah, what the hell,_ ' and decided to post the stupid thing. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy, and please let me know if there's anything that makes no sense!!! :)

There's a clock hanging above the table. It's old, dusty, and there are minuscule cracks that litter its glass face, but it works the way a clock should. The second-hand ticks past the Roman numerals in a steady pace, monotonous, stable. _Tick, tick, tick,_ it goes. _Tick, tick, tick_ as the seconds pass and become minutes.

It reminds Bellamy of the little time he had that slipped past the crevices of his fingers until there was none left. 

His nails dig into his palms, hard enough for it to break skin and draw blood. He feels the droplet roll down his palm and out his fingers, but he doesn't find it in him to care.

He glances at the body, pale and unmoving, on the table, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

The tears don't come.

They'd dried hours ago.

A hand squeezes his shoulders, and looking up, he sees Raven. Her jaw is locked, her grip on his shoulder harder than needed, and her eyes are trained on him with laser-focus. It's almost as if she doesn't want to look up. He doesn't blame her.

It pains him to see his failures laid out in front of him, too.

"You need to rest, Bellamy. Sleep. It's almost morning."

"I'm fine," he mutters, looking down at his feet.

"Bell—"

"I failed her Raven. I lost her again."

Raven doesn't respond, but he feels her take a seat next to him. Quietly, she lays her head on his shoulder. He can feel the teardrop soak into his shirt.

He is numb.

"We all did, Bell." They sit there, silent, not able to bring themselves to look at the body on the table. So, they look at the clock instead.

"I was so mad at her," Raven says softly, her voice not quite drowning out the ticking. " _So_ mad. I didn't understand. Maybe I didn't want to. I just dumped all my anger and frustrations at her because I was so damn tired of the pain. I thought she was the root of all our suffering after coming back to Earth. That if she hadn’t done what she did, everything would still be alright." She stares at Clarke's still body and looks away. 

"Clarke had failed me, but I failed her, too.” She’s quiet again, but then she continues, resigned, "Josephine was right. We made her out to be a monster, but she became one for us all."

_"The girl who’d survived and survived, wishing death upon herself because of the very same people she sacrificed her humanity for. Are you happy now,_ **_Skaikru_ ** _? You’ve finally subdued the Commander of Death!"_

The taunting words linger heavily around them. There had been so many venomous words from Josephine as she struggled to regain control over the situation, and hearing it come from Clarke's mouth had stung and burned, hitting everyone who listened straight in the heart.

Raven releases a shuddering breath.

"She didn't have to die, Bellamy. Even though I was so mad, I didn't want her to _die_. I still want to yell at her, to hug her, to talk to her. To tell her that there's still a chance, that we could be close again someday if we work on it. That she didn't have to bear everything so we don't have to. That she was human, too.

"Somewhere along the line, we forgot she was human. And now we have to pay the price."

Bellamy wraps an arm around Raven, letting her cry against him. He knows the guilt she feels, the anger, the frustration, the rage, the despair.

But now he's numb.

He stares at Clarke.

Dead, just like his heart.

* * *

The mind space was deteriorating faster than Clarke could comprehend. 

Facing off Josephine had worsened it, in retrospect. Though Clarke had wanted to fight her way back into her body, it was useless. Josephine always won. Her only victory had been hacking into Josephine's memories and communicating with the outside world, but it was small. She didn't even know if it worked, if it reached someone that she could trust.

She is losing hope.

 _But you're still breathing_.

"Shut up," Clarke grumbles, glaring at her sketchbook as she grips her head in her hands. "I'm not even in control over my own _lungs_. So how can I have hope?"

Her time is limited. She'd gotten her message out, but that had been _ages_ ago. Now, as she sits on what is left of the hut she had built with Madi in Praimfaya, quietly sketching the people she wants to see one more time but can’t, she is resigned. Resigned to her fate. Resigned to her eventual death.

She can’t find it in her to fight anymore.

She doesn’t want to die, but if it means giving her people a chance, then she’ll die.

_Why would they want you back anyways?_

_You shouldn’t have hoped._

She lets it go. She will. She’ll die anyways. The outcome will remain the same.

Clarke leans against the chair, her back digging into the raised table, and she brings her head back. The ceiling is fluctuating before her vision, and she wonders how she and Madi had managed to build the hut on desecrated land. How many years ago had that been? It had been peaceful then, with just the two of them. So why did they feel the need to build a hut? 

She is forgetting, but at least she will not forget her daughter.

_Oh Madi._

She glances at the sketchbook on her lap. A carefree smile and twinkling eyes stare back at her, and she reverently traces her finger over the picture’s cheeks. She had been so young then, so carefree. It had been half a year since she’d found Madi, and the young girl had struggled with learning English and spoke in rapid Trigedasleng that made her head whirl. 

_What color were her eyes again?_

Panic strikes her. She doesn’t want to forget. Not Madi. Not her daughter.

Clarke squeezes her eyes. Thinks of when she met Madi for the first time. The child from hell, she’d called her, but Madi was a blessing. A blessing that encouraged her to live again. A blessing she loves more than her own life and more than anything else in the universe. Madi loved to look at the stars, to braid Clarke’s hair in crazy patterns that caused painful tangles, to talk to trees and dance with plants, to listen to stories about Clarke’s adventures, to jump into ponds and rivers from a nearby tree, to scare the crap out of Clarke while they were hiking, to sing into the night sky so loudly so "everyone up there" can hear her and know where they are.

She is a beautiful blessing that brightened Clarke’s life into something meaningful.

_She has beautiful green eyes, and she is Clarke’s daughter._

"I can forget anyone else," she whispers, brokenly, "but not my daughter."

 _But you're dying._

She is dying, yes, but she will not forget.

She flips through her sketchbook, desperately drinking in the faces of the people she loved and cared for. Short, dark hair, kind eyes, a soft smile she had loved to see ever since they were just kids; wide, innocent eyes, wild hair restrained by goggles, mischievous smile; long hair gathered at the side, sharp features, tired, motherly eyes; kind, patient eyes, light hair, a proud smile; determined, loyal eyes, a buzzcut and a beard; long dark hair tied into warrior braids, a button nose, fierce, fiery eyes; light hair tied in a single braid, loving eyes, brave smile; straight black hair, soft, peaceful eyes, a shy but friendly smile; spiky hair, prominent nose, a snarky smirk; straight long hair tied into a ponytail, intense, intelligent eyes, and a proud smirk; long, braided hair, a tiny smile, dark paint around beautiful but weary eyes.

And, finally, beautiful dark curls falling into soft eyes, and a youthful half-smile.

She may be dying, but she will not forget.

She will die remembering the people she loved.

Then, she closes her eyes—

.

.

.

.

"Hello, _Clarke_."

Startled, Clarke leaps to her feet, her sketchbook dropping to the ground, and narrows her eyes on Josephine, who is standing at the doorway, smirking.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Josephine’s smirk widens, and she begins to strut around the hut. Taking in its interior, Josephine says, mockingly, "Oooh, not so bad in here. Definitely _homier_ than that hunk of metal you call your _mind space_ , even if half of it is missing."

Her eyes zero in on a drawing of Bellamy hanging from a string. "God, he’s everywhere. You sure having a raging boner for the guy don’t you, Clarkey? Not that I blame you, he’s a damn fine piece of—"

With a knife at hand, Clarke launches herself at Josephine, pressing a knife to the other blonde’s throat. "Get the fuck out of here, Josephine," Clarke hisses. "If I’m going to die, I really don't want to see your face in my last moments."

A look of fear briefly flashes across Josephine’s face before the smug smirk took its place. Don’t poke the sleeping dragon, got it. But god, take a chill pill. Seriously. _Chill._ Calm the fuck down. _Sheesh_ , it’s like you’re a completely different person." She pauses, her eyes wide and innocent. "Oh, wait…"

Pressing the knife deeper into Josephine’s throat, Clarke repeats, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"Okay fine, fine. Just… don’t slit my throat." With another glare, Clarke lets Josephine go and hides the knife up her sleeves. " _Thank you_. Ugh." Her hand lifts to touch the blood that begins to drip from the shallow cut. "This better not leave a mark." Sighing, she hops up on the table and begins to swing her feet. 

"You know, this is nice. Very relaxing. I didn’t expect something so… happy to be in your space. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you’re like a modern version of a Byronic heroine. Dark, depressing, the rain on everybody's parade. So all this? Impressive."

"Josephine…"

The other blonde snorts. "Okay fine. God, seriously, take away _all_ the fun. Look, I’m here because I’m part of you now."

Clarke shoots her a withering look. "You don’t say."

Josephine sighs, shaking her head. "No, not that. Not anymore, at least. See, I’m not really Josephine. I’m a _projection_ of her, kinda. So I’m her, but not her. In fact, I may be a bit more of you now than I am Josephine."

Clarke stares at her, mounting horror on her face. " _Please_ don’t tell me you’re part of my subconscious."

Josephine rolls her eyes again, as if saying, ' _God, you’re stupid._ ' "I'm not, no, thank god. I'd be all kinds of fucked up if I were. But, I am an _extension_ of your subconscious."

" _What_?"

"Well, your friends successfully managed to remove me from your body." Clarke’s head snaps up, visibly shocked at the news. "But, considering that you and I’ve been butting heads ever since I came here, the brain deterioration caused me some _major_ problems—" Josephine pauses to give Clarke a reproachful look— "Thanks for that, by the way. I was having _so_ much fun in this hot Ferrari you call a body. You always manage to ruin the fun, don’t you, Clarkey?"

Clarke just sighs tiredly. "Josephine, just… how are you here? If the removal was successful, I don't understand how you're _here_ and not a projection of my own subconscious."

"I was _getting_ to that." She crosses her arms, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor as she glares at Clarke. "Before I was cut from your body, I left a part of myself here, in your mind. Something like a memory or a dream, but not really."

Clarke’s eyes narrows. "Explain."

Josephine scowls, obviously not pleased with Clarke’s demand, but she continues, "Look, when we inhabit a host, it doesn’t always kill them. Obviously, that leads to some _serious_ brain deterioration if the previous host lives longer than planned, and if it’s serious enough, it can be enough to damage the coding in us, in the chips. 

"Remember when my dad stabbed you in the neck with a syringe _after_ the paralytic? How you didn’t wake up until a couple days after? That’s why we inject that serum into the host. It weakens them to the point where it’s easy for us to barricade them into an _itty-bitty_ corner of their mind. And, well, with us pretty much occupying the entire space…"

"It makes it easier for you to kill them. For you to kill _me_."

"Exactly! So, imagine my surprise when I felt you somewhere in here, alive and kicking, even after I thought my mere presence was enough to kill you. Ugh, you’re like a cockroach, I swear. There’s nothing that can kill you is there?" Behind the annoyance is a sliver of respect and interest, and it makes Clarke feel disgusting.

"Anyways," Josephine continues, "the mind deterioration? When it gets to a certain point, we, the Primes, can see, feel— hell, even _live_ through the memories of the host. Since both mind spaces are starting to deteriorate along with the brain, things just start bleeding through. First, it’s just voices. Then, projections of the host’s subconscious begin to show up. Next, it’s little feelings, little flashes. And finally, the worst stage— actually living through the memories as the host themselves."

"And Josephine— you…?"

"Yep." Casting Clarke a wary glance, Josephine’s hand wanders over her torso, where remainders of her time in a Praimfaya-ravaged Earth still remain. "You may be a huge fucking pain in the ass, but you are kinda badass. Obviously not as cool as me, but—"

"Why are you here, Josephine?"

"I’m here because of the emotions Josephine— that _I_ felt while re-living your worst memories. Don’t get me wrong, I still definitely don’t care about you, but it stirred up memories in her, in _me._

"I’m _her,_ I’m still Josephine. But—"

"But you’re more like me now because of my memories?"

The other blonde claps sarcastically. "Ding ding ding ding! Ten points to Slytherin! I’m the part of Josephine Lightborne who still remembers that she’s human, who still _feels_ that she’s human. And it’s all thanks to you, Clarkey."

"Who remembers she’s still human?" Clarke repeats, her eyes narrowing as she tries to connect the information Josephine gave her. Then it occurs to her. 

"The code. Are you talking about the code in the chip?"

"Yep. You see, feelings can get _all_ kinds of fucked up in code, even with the complex system Becca Pramheda came up with. Either these 'feelings' becomes a part of the code, or it becomes a virus. It’ll corrupt and overwhelm the system, change the code— the _person_ written in the code. Now, it’s rare, but it can happen."

Josephine pauses, taking in the confused expression on Clarke’s face, and rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, I’ll dumb it down for you. Won’t be accurate, but it should be easy enough for even you to follow.

"So, say that Josephine the chip is the computer and that feelings are a USB drive. Either the USB carries 'files' that the computer can open and use— that is, feelings become part of the code in the chip and life carries on as usual— or it can carry a virus that’ll fuck up the computer— in this case, Josephine. Me.

"And, see, the thing about USBs is that they’re not actually _part_ of the computer— they're an extension of it. It’s a removable disk, and the computer can get by without it." She looks at Clarke expectantly.

"So she threw a part of herself away. She threw _you_ away."

"Ow, okay. Way to make it harsher than it actually is. But sure, that’s basically what happened. Since I, Josie, didn’t like the emotions living through _your_ memories brought on, I— Josephine— separated the part of my code from the rest back into here. Not the first time that happened, actually. One host in particular was _so_ —"

"But why?" Clarke interrupts, earning an annoyed look from Josephine, "Why would she throw her memories away? Won’t she just forget about them? Lose a part of herself?"

"Memories, new and old, immediately become part of the code, so she can’t actually _forget_ them. The feelings attached to these memories however…"

"They’re gone. That’s what Josephine threw away."

"Exactly. But, see, the thing is, it’s not always a permanent fix. I know that; the feelings can come back. But somehow, each time…" Josephine gains a faraway look in her eyes, an expression that Clarke never thought she’d see the day of. "Each time, it hurts a little less."

"She’s a sociopath of her own doing," Clarke mutters. "She’s been doing this for more than two centuries, it’s surprising that she still feels that way. Like a human."

"If that’s the way you wanna look at it. Geez, you’re so cynical."

Clarke gives her a withering look. "So I can’t get rid of you?"

Josephine huffs. " _Of course_ you immediately go for murder. But, ugh, yes, you can get rid of me. I wouldn’t though. I am a catch after all. Probably better than all those homicidal hallucinations that live inside your head."

Clarke turns away from her, staring at the blank space that was slowly eating away at the hut. The information Josephine gave her is enough to cause her mind to spin, but there is one piece in particular that is threatening to overwhelm her.

"My friends got the chip out," she says quietly after a few moments. "They didn't give up on me." 

Josephine rolls her eyes. "Well, they almost did," she grumbles, but Clarke ignores her.

There’s a renewed hope within her, and she will not let Josephine do anything to squash it.

"So now I’m in control,” Clarke murmurs, turning on Josephine. "Listen, I won't kill you if you agree to help me. My mind space is already deteriorating, but you’ll either help me build it back up, _or_ you stay out of my way. 

"I'm serious, Josephine. I won’t let you ruin this for me."

But Josephine is staring at Clarke as if amused, as if she had something— a huge piece of the puzzle that Clarke did not know of yet.

"Well," Josephine drawls, "normally, I’d fight you on this, but frankly I don't care. Even if you _do_ kill me, it’s useless."

Ice washes over Clarke. "What do you mean, Josephine?"

A cold, taunting smile appears on Josephine’s face. She’s enjoying this, but Clarke is frozen. Somehow, she knows what Josephine is about to say before the Prime even opens her mouth.

  
"Now, how do I say this as nicely as possible? You’re dying, Clarke. Any chances that you have are _already_ ruined."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, Clarke was me half the time. 
> 
> _"WhAt? What the hELL do yOu mean Josephine?! What dafuq you even talking about?!"_
> 
> I wasn't very happy with the flow of the conversation between Josephine and Clarke, but oh wellll. Again, pls leave a review and lemme know if anything in this word vomit doesn't make any sense!


End file.
